


Happy Birthday Ringo!

by orphan_account



Category: The Beatles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 04:31:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4290915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yay! 75 today! Just a little story of how John, Paul and George end up celebrating Ringo's birthday back in the 60's :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday Ringo!

**Author's Note:**

> It is to my dismay that I do NOT own Misters John, Paul, George and Ringo. If I did, the world would have been notified years and years and YEARS ago and I would be out partying with Mr Starr right NOW. But I don't and I'm not. Life can be sad sometimes :D Enjoy!
> 
> ALSO sometimes I may have put J, P, G or R instead of John, Paul, George and Ringo because I originally wrote this for fanfic.net and they don't let you have real people as characters, so there may still be mistakes! Sorry!

The fact was that none of them even knew how to make a cake in the first place. Much less a double chocolate gateau adorned with cream and cherries and other such fancy items, but at least you could say that they tried. They did, of course they did, though maybe a little too much.

oOo

‘There’s no such thing as too much!’ was the phrase that echoed down the baking aisle of Waitrose’s food section as George Harrison plucked bar upon bar of Dairy Milk from the shelves and dumped them unceremoniously into the trolley John was manoeuvring, ignoring the annoyed sigh which emitted from his fellow bandmate, and beaming as far as his mouth would go, vampire teeth piercing pink lips, eyes shining with childish excitement. 

John shut his eyes and counted to ten. This was horrible. This was horrible. If George Harrison did not shut up within five seconds, he was going to meet a very untimely end, curtesy of Mr Lennon, and John certainly wasn’t going to refrain. He wouldn’t even turn up to the funeral. He’d vandalise the grave. He’d –

He growled at George. Clenched and unclenched his fists. Pushed the trolley onwards, scanning the shelves for sugar. But, contrary to his intentions, this idiot he had found himself landed with seemed to take his silence as a win. John scowled harder as George beamed wider, and they continued. 

oOo

‘Flour.’ 

George jumped as Paul appeared behind them and dropped a packet of flour into the mass of chocolate bars. John frowned as Paul beamed proudly, and George eyed the flour suspiciously. 

‘Are you sure that’s –’

‘We need more than that, you twit.’ John picked up the little sachet and shoved it back into the hands of its (now extremely discouraged-looking) owner, frowning. ‘How are we going to make a cake with that?’

‘You said, and I quote, “some flour”. That’s some flour. Isn’t it?’

‘That IS flour,’ interjected George. ‘And there IS some of it.’

‘Just not enough, idiots. Go get some more Paul.’ And John turned Paul around and pushed his back.

Paul started walking, but not before grumbling, ‘it took me ages to get that.’ John sighed, and pushed the trolley onwards.

It had been going relatively smoothly until the sweetie aisle. Paul had returned with a sufficient amount of flour, George had stopped piling everything he wanted into the trolley and John was just about keeping his sanity, so it was going fine. It was going fine.

And then the trolley turned, George saw the flash of multi-coloured sweets and, ‘JELLY BABIES!!’ echoed through the shop. John became momentarily deafened while Paul laughed, watching as George sprinted down the linoleum floor and snatched as many packets of the goddamn sweet off the shelves as he could, cradling them in his arms and quick-stepping back to John before stuffing them into the confines of the pushcart and beaming in pride, and then turning round to go get some more. John caught his arm just in time, picking up several packets of Jelly Babies, spinning George around and pushing them back into his arms.

‘No you don’t. We don’t/need/ Jelly Babies.’

‘Yes we do –’

‘No, we –’

‘YES!’

‘NO, George!’

‘YES!’

‘Pweaassseeee?’ 

John swivelled on the spot as George peered around him, and they both looked to see Paul, bottom lip poking out, batting his eyelashes at John. He frowned yet again (he seemed to be doing it a lot these days) and sighed. 

‘Nuh.’ 

‘Awwwwwww.’ The noise emitted from both his idiot friends as John growled and they continued on their way. 

oOo

John didn’t know when but somewhere in the course of an hour both of his bandmates had been miraculously transformed into children. George hated shopping. And Paul, the usually sensible one, pedantic to the very last detail – so much so that it annoyed John sometimes – had decided that today was the day he would throw caution to the wind and discover that he hated shopping too. And John found himself praying to a God he didn’t believe in for that meticulousness to return and that the two kids he was watching over did NOT knock over that precariously balanced pyramid of spams at the end of their finishing line and get them sent home with no ingredients and more importantly no jelly babies to distract George with. 

They knocked over the precariously balanced pyramid of spams. And it was entirely down to the fact that they were the Beatles and nothing whatsoever to do with Paul’s ‘charm’ that they didn’t get chucked out of Waitrose there and then, as John was reiterating. For what felt like the thousandth time. Oh God, what was happening to his life?

‘It wasn’t /my fault/-’

‘It was /entirely/ your fault, George.’

George pouted. ‘Stupid place to put tins anyway. Wasn’t it Paul?’

‘Definitely. Absolutely ridiculous.’ The cute Beatle was currently picking random items off the shelves and shoving them into the trolley in the vain attempt to make it look like he was contributing something to the ordeal. John sighed.

‘You shut up too. It’s your fault as well.’

‘I’m the reason we’re still here.’ 

‘You’re the reason we almost went.’ 

And so they continued.

oOo

The cashier was an inconsequential flirt as John unloaded the trolley and George and Paul packed their acquisitions into plastic bags. She stroked John’s hand. She flicked her hair. Put on a low, sultry voice, wiggled her eyebrows, scribbled her number thrice on the receipt and waved goodbye as they left. John decided he hated fans like that as they clambered into the nearest taxi they could hail and paid the fare home. 

It was decided that Ringo would be distracted by Brian whilst the cake was being baked. Because it just wouldn’t do for all their hard work to be wasted by their surprise not being a surprise. That would ruin the whole ordeal as Paul announced loudly on the way back to the apartment and George nodded at as John sighed and suppressed a creeping smile, looking out the window as his bandmates talked mindlessly about rubbish he didn’t care for and watching the trees speed by. 

oOo

They tied the aprons on and laid the ingredients in front of them like a line of soldiers ready for battle, opened the cook-book at the right page, preheated the oven and unpacked scales which had never been used before and never would be used again, surveying their surroundings with apparent pride. 

‘Right then.’

George beamed at his two bandmates, waiting for the orders. He had never been a whizz at baking but he was going to try, for the simple reason that the cake looked amazing in the picture and there was no way that Ringo and the others would be able to eat all of it, meaning that he would be allowed a considerable chunk of the finishing product. 

‘Are we ready?’

Paul bounced on the balls of his feet, having announced himself head-chef in the taxi-ride back. He wasn’t exactly sure how they were going to make this cake, but it couldn’t be that hard, could it? And besides, they had John, who Paul was sure must have made hundreds of cakes for Cyn, and they had George, who though Paul had never seen physically baking, was an expert on all things sweet and cake-like and they had Paul who was the appointed head-chef and who would make sure everything was done right.

‘Now first we need to figure out how to turn this on.’

John gestured at the scales as he frowned, reading the recipe through for the first time since Paul and George had chosen it. And by God, it looked hard. Yes, because miraculously, and with the talent that only George and Paul could have had, of course the two twits had chosen the hardest stupid cake in the whole book and with none of them being professionals or even experienced by any stretch of the imagination, this was going to be difficult. And now they were fussing about how to turn the scales on. Great.

‘Well…’ George eyed the instrument carefully, before looking back up at his fellow musicians, waiting for the verdict. ‘Me mam always said to put batteries in them first…’

‘We have, you git.’

‘Oh.’ George sighed. ‘I’m out then.’ 

Paul frowned. ‘We could ask someone?’ 

‘Yes, great idea Paulie.’ Hell, were they idiots or something? ‘Let’s just ask one of the many millions of people milling around, other than me, you and George shall we? Hey /mister/!’

‘There’s no need to be sarcastic John.’

‘Well?’ 

‘Well what do you suggest then?’ 

John smiled, looking at the scales, a slightly sadistic glint in his eye. What the hell. ‘I guess we’ll just have to whack it with a hammer.’

There was a short pause in which John waited for the others’ response and Paul and George tried to figure out whether he was being serious or not. 

Finally the former spoke. ‘…Really?’

‘No Paul.’ What. A. Moron. ‘I’m going to guess we have to press this button here, OK?’

‘Clever, clever.’

‘Right.’

And the scales beeped on. 

oOo

‘John…’ 

George’s face was red with exertion as he continued to whisk the eggs and the extract together, calling for the eldest Beatle in the room as he curdled the mixture and continued to curdle.

‘What, Harris- oh.’ 

‘What’s wrong?!’ Paul was by their side in a second. 

John looked up. ‘He’s curdled the eggs, the twit,’ was the explanation by the senior, and though Paul didn’t exactly understand this term of phrase, there was silence as George stopped whisking and the three musicians looked down at the ruined mixture in despair, trying to think of an alternate method which could, potentially, save the cake. 

‘Well…’ Paul frowned, eyeing the yellow glop and biting his finger nail at the absence of discussion that entailed. ‘It doesn’t look too fatal, does it?’

‘Famous last words, McCartney,’ tutted John, smiling at his junior.

‘Aye, but it’s still egg, in’t it?’

‘Curdled egg,’ butted in George, as John nodded.

‘Yes, but egg all the same,’ was the given reply.

George smiled. ‘You sure?’ 

‘No.’

‘Paul …’

‘But I /think/…’

And at this, both bassist and guitarist turned to look at John.

A frown from the eldest. ‘Fine. But it had better taste nice, is all I’m saying.’ 

‘It will, John. Just don’t whisk it anymore Georgie.’

George nodded. ‘Ok,’ again and the three looked once more at the recipe book. 

oOo

‘I’LL DO FLOUR!’ 

Paul took the pack of flour out the shopping bag and began measuring it out, George and John looking at him with apparent concern.

‘Ok?’

‘Then I’ll do sugar.’ George. 

‘Right. And I’ll do butter.’

‘Ok.’ 

And the three set about setting up their appropriate ingredients for addition. 

oOo

John didn’t know how, but somehow, within the timescale of about a minute, Paul had managed to drop the flour packet onto the floor and now they were trapped in the suffocating white mist. Just fab.

‘Ugh.’ And apparently George had tried to taste it. ‘That’s disgusting. Nothing like the flour powder me mam used to have at home.’

‘That may have been icing-sugar George,’ was John’s reply as he surveyed the surroundings in minor annoyance.

There was a short silence in which George could only mutter ‘oh’ and John looked to Paul for advice.

‘Paulie?’

The younger looked up. Frowned, slightly, before speaking, rather belatedly. ‘…Oops.’ 

And it was all John could do not to laugh at the rabbit-trapped-in-headlights expression on the bassists face.

oOo

George doled the gloppy brown mixture into the baking tin with trepidation. He didn’t want to drop it. He did not want to drop it.  
He /did/, however, want to taste it. 

So he tasted it.

Dipped his finger in. Looked around to see that no-one was watching him, because that would be a bit stupid if he got caught, and slowly, slowly –

‘What are you doing, George?’

And stupid ol’ John Lennon chose that precise moment to walk into the room, catching George right in the act of tasting the food.

George went bright red. ‘There was an egg shell in there!’

John shook his head. ‘Nope.’

A sigh from the younger, before he looked at his feet. ‘Don’t tell Paulie?’

John laughed. ‘Ok.’ And went out again.

oOo

‘The hell is a ganache?’’

‘Sound like the surname of a really poncy Frenchman to me.’

‘Helpful, John.’

John smiled. ‘Well it could be?’

Paul grinned. ‘Yeah. Make a really poncy Frenchman with the cream and the chocolate. Obviously.’

George frowned. ‘I don’t think that’s right lads.’

J turned slowly round to face him, eyeing the guitarist with wide eyes. ‘Nooooo.’ He turned back to Paul. ‘We have a genius in the making.’ 

A scowl from the joke’s butt. ‘Shuttup.’ 

‘Well?’

Paul intervened quickly, speaking fast so as to avoid an argument. ‘Let’s just melt some chocolate.’

George looked scandalised. ‘We can’t waste the cream Paulie.’

John frowned. ‘Melt the chocolate /and/ the cream?’

‘Is that a thing?’ Paul’s eye-brows knitted together.

A laugh from the walrus. ‘It is now!’

oOo

‘I don’t like getting water on me clothes –’

‘Ach, Paulie, stop being such a girl.’

‘I’m not a girl!’

‘Could’ave fooled me…’

'What?'

‘COULD’AVE FOOLED –’

‘Yes, I heard you the first time George.’

‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

George frowned, thick eyebrows knotting together at the question. ‘I don’t know. But I want to dry. I bagsed drying.’ 

‘No.’

‘Yes.’

Paul scowled. ‘If I’m a girl, you’re a child.’

A grimace from his younger friend. ‘If I’m a child, you’re a twat.’

‘If I’m a twat, you’re an idiot.’

‘If I’m an idiot, you’re an egomaniac.’

‘AND IF YOU’RE BOTH ALL OF THAT THEN I’M THE BEST. NOW HURRY UP.’ John’s voice interrupted from the living room, where he sprawled on the sofa, reading a magazine. 

Paul and George looked at each other. ‘How come he gets to do nothing?’

‘COS I BAKED MOST OF THE CAKE, THAT’S WHY.’

Paul grimaced. ‘Elephant ears.’

‘Hurry up, Paul. Ringo will be home soon.’

‘Four-eyes.’

‘HEY I HEARD THAT.’

‘YES HE HEARD THAT GEORGE.’

‘What?’

‘I know it was you, Paul.’

‘Meh. Hurry up washing George.’

‘I’m drying.’

‘I’m older.’

‘You’re a girl –’

‘No I’m –’

oOo

Ringo Starr arrived home to the smell of burning and the sound of frenzied shouting. He sighed. Nice of them to remember and all. It was only his birthday. Nevertheless, he forced on a bright smile, willed himself to forget that his ‘friends’ had abandoned him with Eppy for the past couple of hours and walked into the kitchen.

There was silence as three Beatles looked at one and the room momentarily stilled. 

Before –

‘GET HIM OUT!’ from John.

‘GO AWAY Ringo!’ from Paul.

And - ‘YOU’LL RUIN THE SURPRISE!’ from George. 

At which point Ringo left the smoky room and the bassist and his song-writing partner stared at George.

Ringo could barely hear the whispered, ‘it’s a double bluff,’ before stalking into his room and slamming it shut, marking it down as possibly the worst birthday since last year, when the boys had tried to take him out for a meal and they had been completely and utterly swamped by fans. In fact, the only thing that made this year worse than that was the fact that at least they had remembered. They tried last year. This time, they had just shouted.

Oh lucky, lucky Ringo.

oOo

John stared at George.

Paul stared at George.

George smiled self-consciously, before gesturing to the smoking oven. ‘Shouldn’t we … possibly take that out?’

John glared, before turning to face the oven and bending to open the door, coughing slightly from the billows of smoke that emitted forthwith. ‘Shouldn’t you … possibly /shut your mouth/?’

George blinked.

‘That was the worst double bluff I have ever heard in my life.’

‘Guys…’

‘YOU’LL RUIN THE SURPRISE? What even was that?’

‘Guys…’

‘Well I’m not trusting you with my secrets.’

‘Guys…’

‘What. A. Moro-’

‘JOHN. Look at the cake.’

And at this point all three of the four Beatles simultaneously turned their heads to stare at the charred, blackened and completely burned cake. That they had spent such a long time making.

‘Ah,’ was all John could say. ‘Yes, that’s a potential problem.’ 

And they continued to stare.

oOo

‘So John’ll distract Ringo whilst George and I will go buy a cake, right?’

‘Okay.’

‘Right.’

And they each went their separate ways.

oOo

Paul scanned the rows upon rows of cake after cake after cake, trying to decide which one would be best for Ringo. George trailed after him, slathering at the spectacle before him. 

‘This one!’

The younger held up probably the largest cake-box in the shop, a triumphant expression plastered on his face as he approached Paul with the object clasped tightly in his hand. Inspecting it, the bassist had to admit he agreed with George on this one. It was a masterpiece. Almost identical to the one from the picture in the recipe they were trying to recreate, it had cherries and chocolate icing and probably ganache, though they still hadn’t determined the real meaning of the word and though Paul could tell it would be expensive, it was worth it. For Ringo. It was worth buying this £20 cake for Ringo. It was his birthday, after all. 

George’s eyes sparkled as his companion nodded. ‘Yay Paulie!’

And he shoved it into the trolley.

'Wait, George.'

And though Paul prayed it wouldn’t be the case…

He had nothing but a fiver. He couldn’t afford hardly any of these cakes, let alone the largest and most expensive of them all …

‘George?’ 

‘…What?’

Paul sighed. ‘D’you have any money?’

oOo

John had spent probably half an hour attempting to scrape off most of the blackened mixture on the surface of the cake, having discovered to his relief that only the top of the cake was burned. The rest was salvageable at least. 

Phew. 

He set to work melting together the chocolate and the cream (to make a ganache, /don’t you know/) in a saucepan over the heat and this concoction, he supposed, would be dribbled over the cake to disguise its hideous first impression and make it look … somewhat edible. Or he hoped, anyway, because the cake looked downright disgusting at present. 

oOo

Paul and George ended up at the counter of Waitrose for precisely the second time that day. George was fuming. And Paul was red in the face because he knew, he /knew/ that it was entirely his fault that they hadn’t been able to get the cake appropriate for a proper, decent birthday. He knew that.

The cashier just smiled as she scanned the £4.99 miniature deluxe version of the Thomas the Tank Engine children’s birthday cake and Paul blushed even more. 

George just scowled.

oOo

Maybe a ganache wasn’t melted chocolate and cream. In fact, John didn’t even think you could melt cream. He didn’t know why he’d even tried to melt cream. And now he was left with a blackened cake and some sticky, light brown goo which didn’t look at all enticing. 

He just hoped that the other two had had more luck with their search for another cake.

oOo

Paul and George smuggled the cake in and presented it in an appropriate fashion to John, with Paul looking suitably disgraced and George looking furious. Leave it to Paul to forget the money. Just Paul.

John paled at the sight of the blue train, staring up at him from a box smaller than his face. 

‘Oh God.’

And he presented his outcome.

None of them had the guts to laugh at the situation. Not even a tiny bit.

oOo

Ringo contemplated whether or not to come out of his room upon his summoning. He could just sit there and wallow in his self-pity and malcontent. Or he could go outside and have done.

He decided on the latter. Fine.

Hr opened the door to see three idiots beaming half-heartedly at him around the table, surrounding a blackened … surrounding something black and a … was that a blue cake? 

Wait cake?

A cake?

Ringo’s smile began to creep back onto his face as he approached the table nearing the cake and his friends with trepidation but quickening with each step. 

Upon his arrival, he sat. And beamed. 

The three others looked vaguely shocked at his reaction, but upon his seating the pulled up chairs and followed suit, with red faces and flitting eyes.

Finally, John spoke.

‘Well … Merry Christmas Ringo.’

And all four began to laugh. 

oOo

‘So … shall we try the cake?’

‘Yes, George.’ 

Ringo beamed, watching George’s eyes flash as John handed everyone a plate and Paul got a knife to cut it with. 

‘Shall we start with the gateau?’ 

John smiled at Ringo’s question, adopted a posh-English voice and took the knife off Paul. ‘Let’s.’ 

And they cut the cake. 

Paul couldn’t keep the grin off his face as John handed out the slices, and gestured to Ringo. ‘The birthday boy should try it first!’

A smile from the eldest. ‘Okay, okay, calm down, Paul.’

‘You try it first!’

‘Yes, okay…’

‘Eat it Ringo!’

‘I’m trying!’

And he brought the cake to his mouth. 

And bit into the… interestingly coloured cake …

‘Ugh!’

And spat it out all over the table. 

‘OhmyGOD.’

The smiles were gone from his bandmates’ faces as Paul jumped up from his chair and ran into the kitchen to get Ringo some water as the offended man clawed at his tongue in the vain attempt to rid himself of the disgusting taste of that…

George tentatively reached for the discarded slice of chocolate mush. And bit off the tiniest bite.

And winced. 

oOo

‘Dammit George!’

‘You trying to poison me?’

George glowed bright red.

He’d put salt instead of sugar in the cake-mix. 

And oh God he felt stupid.

Actually, he doubted he’d ever felt stupider before in his whole life, and judging by the massive grin which was now once more intact upon Ringo Starr’s face, the drummer agreed. 

‘George?’ John looked scandalised. ‘How the hell-’

‘THAT CAKE WAS GOING TO BE SO NICE, GOD GEORGE. It’s completely RUINED now.’ Paul was standing just behind the chair of the birthday boy, glass of water in hand, hand on his back, ready for another onslaught of coughing, just in case Ringo was thick enough to try another slice of cake, it seemed. ‘It was going to be amazing.’

George had the sense of humour to supress a grin at Paul’s outburst. John grinned too, from his seat across the table and spoke directly to the bassist. ‘I don’t think it would have been all that delicious, Paulie. Even with our amazing ganache, and all of our … hard work.’

Paul turned to glare at John. ‘It would have been yummy.’ 

Ringo snorted. ‘Yummy?’ 

Paul nodded. Hard. ‘Yes yummy. Or it would have been.’ And with this utterance, he stared pointedly at his bright red bandmate, who slouched further down in his chair at the look.

‘It wasn’t my /fault/-’

‘I’ve had rice crispies snappier than that comeback, George.’

The perpetrator bit his lip to hide a smile. ‘/Have/ you Paul?’

‘Yes,’ huffed the bassist, before slumping into an adjacent chair with his head in his hands and a very glum expression on his face. ‘God, Ringsy, this must be the worst birthday ever, I’m sorry.’ 

Ringo smiled. ‘Yeah, I’ve had better.’ After seeing the crestfallen expression on Paul’s face, however, he continued. Hurriedly. ‘But nowhere near the worst.’ The bassist looked up, along with John and George, and each turned to look at their drummer. ‘No, you guys remembered. And previous birthdays I’ve been ill. So not the worst by a long shot. And the cake?’ He gestured towards the blacky-browny schlop in front of them. ‘Well … it’s not … it’s not -'

'/Don't/ say it's not gross,' John warned. 'Don't.'

Ringo smiled. ‘It’s a fascinating texture. And quite a … quite a spectacle to look at, I think.’

‘And what the birthday boy says goes,’ interjected George. ‘So it’s not awful, and I didn’t ruin it. I agree Ringsy, thanks.’ He beamed. 

Paul forced out a smile in return. ‘Well, now we know what to get George next birthday.’ 

George turned white. 

THE END


End file.
